


Friday Night Frights

by SuburbanSun



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Gen, ToT: Monster Mash, Trick or Treat 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-24 00:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8349310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuburbanSun/pseuds/SuburbanSun
Summary: “Well, it’s about time,” snapped Emily. She swirled her martini in her glass, then took a delicate sip. “Leave it to Lorelai to be late for the apocalypse.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sobriquett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sobriquett/gifts).



> I found/read/liked your letter and it sparked this trick/treat-- I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Let’s say this takes place within current canon, presuming Lorelai and Rory still meet at Emily’s house for Friday night dinners.

“Where on Earth have you been?”

“Gee, thanks, Mom. You know how to make a girl feel at home.” Lorelai shrugged out of her coat and placed it in Magdalena's waiting arms. “Have you considered joining the neighborhood welcome committee?”

Emily rolled her eyes, stomping one kitten heel on the expensive tile of the foyer. “Stop messing around and come inside.”

Lorelai bit back a chuckle and followed after Emily, their twin footsteps clacking against the floor. “Rory should be here any minute.”

“She’s already here.”

“Mom!” Rory leapt up from the couch as they entered the living room, rushing over to Lorelai and wrapping her arms around her. Lorelai hugged her back, a little confused.

“Good to see you, too, daughter of mine.”

“Thank God you’re okay!”

That set off Lorelai’s nerves. She pulled back, her palms sliding up to grip Rory’s shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

Rory gave her one of those looks, the one she saved for when it came out that Lorelai had never actually read Kierkegaard or had fallen asleep during Battleship Potemkin. This time, though, the crease between her brows seemed more worried than pitying.

“Haven’t you seen the news?” Emily interjected. Then, she called out over her shoulder, “Magdalena? Freshen our drinks, please!”

“Did you listen to the radio on the way here?” Rory asked, her tone much less harsh than Emily’s.

“No,” said Lorelai as Magdelena thrust a gin and tonic into her hand, the contents spilling just a little bit over the rim of the glass. She poked at the lime with the tiny black straw. “I found that old boy-bands-and-popstars CD you burned for me when you were 13 or 14, before I knew how to work the computer. So it’s been everything from Justin to Kelly, but no news. Why?”

Emily and Rory sank down onto the sofa, side by side, and Lorelai had the idle thought that they’d never looked so alike. She laughed nervously and perched on the edge of the opposite couch.

“What is it?”

It was Rory who spoke up first. “Remember that movie night where we watched 28 Days and 28 Days Later, and you made us come up with stories about how zombies would eat Sandra Bullock?”

“Of course. They’d go for the face first. It’s got to have some kind of ageless properties, and that would make them look less creepy so they could pass for people.”

Rory grimaced. “Well. That kind of problem-solving might come in handy because… we appear to be in the midst of a zombie outbreak.”

Okay. Now Lorelai had heard it _all_. “What?”

Emily huffed. “Do you need to get your hearing checked, Lorelai? Because I can call Dr. Zane, but I don’t suppose he’ll be in the mood to make house-calls in the middle of _complete and utter chaos._ ”

“Chaos? What are you even talking about? There was practically no traffic on the way here!”

“Did you notice any abandoned cars along the side of the highway?” asked Rory, both hands grasping the cocktail Magdalena had poured for her.

“Standard Hartford traffic,” Lorelai insisted, waving a hand dismissively. “I figured all the bad drivers finally realized their faults and wanted to repent by pulling over to the side of the road and letting me through. Took ‘em long enough, am I right?”

“Mom,” said Rory, not unkindly. “You know that’s not true.”

Lorelai frowned, sipping her drink. She rubbed one thumb back and forth over the beveled glass and thought back to her drive from Stars Hollow to Hartford-- the way she’d flown past empty cars pulled off onto the shoulder; the way everything had seemed eerily still and calm once she’d driven into town. A few of the storefronts downtown had appeared to be on fire, but didn’t that happen sometimes? Hoodlums had a field day on a Friday night.

But, she had to admit, that all added up to something slightly less than _normal_.

“You mean--”

“I do.”

“Zombies are real?”

“Well, it’s about time,” snapped Emily. She swirled her martini in her glass, then took a delicate sip.  
“Leave it to Lorelai to be late for the apocalypse.”

“It’s not an apocalypse,” Rory explained calmly. “At least, we don’t know that yet. There have only been a few reports on the actual level of damage so far. I’ve been getting regular alerts from the paper. And besides, apparently those who are infected take awhile to actually become-- um, become zombies.”

Lorelai tossed back the rest of her gin and tonic. Before she could set the glass on the coffee table, Magdalena appeared and snatched it from her hand. Without anything to hold, she sat back on the sofa, tapping her fingers anxiously against her thighs.

“Are we talking the fast kind or the slow kind? Because that can really make a difference when you’ve got to fend off a couple dozen of them with only the contents of your purse. And do we know if pepper spray works on them?” Lorelai dug into her little clutch, which sat beside her on the couch. “I also have… three lipsticks, a pack of mints and a roll of flypaper-- don’t ask.” She gasped. “Luke! I’ve got to call Luke.”

Rory stood up and circled the coffee table, coming to sit beside Lorelai and stilling her mother’s hands with her own. “Relax-- I already called him, right when I got here. I called you, too, but you weren’t answering your phone.”

“You can’t interrupt the horrifying awesomeness of early Timberlake, Rory; you know this.”

“He’s holed up at the diner, and he’s got a shotgun,” Rory continued. “He’s fine. If anybody can handle themselves in the event of a zombie uprising, it’s Luke.”

Lorelai pictured him, baseball cap barely askew as he blasted shotgun shells into one zombie’s head after another. It almost made her smile.

“So…” she began.

“So, if we’re going to hide out anywhere, this place isn’t the worst choice, is it?” Rory suggested.

“While I’m not quite sure I appreciate so much damning with faint praise, Rory, I believe you’re right,” said Emily. She set her glass down on the coffee table. “We have plenty of supplies-- food, vodka, gin. And Magdalena can pop out for anything else we might need.”

“Grandma, we are _not_ making Magdalena leave the house in this mess.”

Emily held up both hands placatingly. “Fine, fine. But we may run out of olives--”

Lorelai gasped her most facetious gasp. “Not the blue-cheese-stuffed kind!”

“Pardon me for having superior taste in garnishes, Lorelai.”

“Mom, Grandma, focus,” interjected Rory. “I have a checklist of things to do in this situation, and we’ve only gotten through the first item.”

“Which I assume is ‘survey the alcohol options’?” Lorelai asked.

“No,” Rory said, tapping on the screen of her phone to open an app. “The first item is to ensure that your loved ones are accounted for.”

“Where are olives? Number 3?” Lorelai sucked in another breath. “Number 7?”

“Magdalena, please refresh our drinks again. Be sure to do Lorelai’s last,” Emily insisted with a glare in her daughter’s direction. The young woman nodded stiltedly and lumbered over to the bar cart in the corner.

“Item number 2 is to get to a secure location,” Rory said.

“Our security system is state of the art,” Emily said. “If so much as a squirrel crosses the perimeter, I get a notification about it on my phone, and have the option to stun or kill.”

“So, definitely check.”

“Hang on,” said Lorelai. “What’s this app, anyway? Walkr?” She paused, and the other women looked at her with blank expressions. “Like, ‘walker’ without the ‘e’?” They blinked at her, and she sighed. “More of a visual joke, I guess.”

“It’s my Notes app, Mom.”

“You have a checklist of what to do in the instance of a zombie apocalypse in your Notes app?”

Rory shrugged. “I get bored on the bus sometimes. I like to be thorough.”

“So what’s item number 3?” Emily interrupted. Magdalena reappeared with three drinks clutched in her hands. She clunked one down in front of Emily, who scowled at the sound, then in front of Rory. As directed, Lorelai was given hers last.

Rory frowned down at her phone. “Um… assess all available weaponry.”

Emily let out a haughty breath. “Well, that’s just ridiculous. Are we expected to have an arsenal in our attic?”

“This house has an attic?” Lorelai asked. “How did I never know that? Ooh, is there a portrait of you up there that gets older by the day?”

“No, there’s no attic, Lorelai, and if there was, I wouldn’t keep art up there. It was an expression.”

“Should I add it to Urban Dictionary?”

“We may just have to improvise,” said Rory evenly. It was clear she was trying to keep the conversation on track. Lorelai felt a surge of pride. That was _her daughter_ , keeping a cool head in such a high-stakes situation. She’d raised a good one, hadn’t she?

Lorelai heard a loud grunt, and her gaze swung back to Emily. “Mom, improvising’s not _such_ a bad thing. I mean, there’s no Drew Carey here to keep score, but we can make do.”

“What in the world are you talking about, Lorelai?”

She heard the grunt again, and this time could confirm that it definitely wasn’t coming from Emily. Rory seemed equally nonplussed, her brow furrowed on the couch beside Lorelai.

“What was that?” said Rory.

“What does Drew Carey have to do with anything?” said Emily at the same time.

Lorelai placed her gin and tonic on the table with a frown, looking from Rory to Emily and back again. She heard the grunt again, almost like a low groan now, and this time, it was accompanied by a slow shuffling thud. “You hear that, too?” she asked, looking at her daughter.

“It sounds like--”

“Lorelai--”

“Shh, Mom.” Lorelai held a finger up, trying to concentrate. “Listen.

“No, Lorelai--”

“Mom!”

Finally, Emily heaved a huge, impatient sigh, then stood up from the couch, grasped the iron poker from its spot beside the fireplace, and reared back like a seasoned baseball player. She lunged forward, side-stepping the coffee table, and swung the poker hard, thwacking it firmly against Magdalena’s twitching, groaning head. Lorelai barely had time to turn around to see the confrontation take place before zombie brains had splattered all over the elegant wallpaper, dripping in viscous clumps down onto the plush imported rug.

Emily sat back down, crossing her legs and letting the poker rest against her pant-suited knee. She picked up her martini glass and took a slow sip, one eyebrow quirked at the two younger Gilmores.

“This will be a hassle. Good help is nearly _impossible_ to find these days.”


End file.
